Christmas Trees on Cars

Yesterday was the Winter Solstice, last night the longest night of the year. I had wanted to celebrate, commemorate it somehow, but I was mostly tired yesterday. This is not only the time of year for gift giving; it is also the time of year when my youngest daughter is cooking and baking and making candy and gifts of homemade granola. Because of that, I am shopping, shopping, shopping. I think I’ve been to the co-op three times already this week, and then throw in going to Lunds, Kowalski’s and finally the hardware store looking for fireplace matches with which to flambe the coq au vin that she is planning to prepare for the family dinner; well, I am tired. 

Driving around town the last two weekends I see cars with trees strapped on top of them. Now that it is nearly Christmas, the signs on the tree lots say “half price.” Lots that were full of greenery a couple of weeks ago are sparse, the white lights dangling amidst the darkness of early evening. Once I became a teenager, I was the one who went out and got the Christmas tree with my mom. It became her story, “I don’t know if I would have had a real tree if it weren’t for Theresa. No one else would help me.” And I don’t know how we got it into her car, but I think she had a hatchback, and we did. We were never “let’s strap the Christmas tree onto the top of the car” kind of people. Ever. And once we got that tree home, my mom had her ‘rules’ for decorating the tree. The smallest ornaments always went higher up in the tree. 

Christmastime was laden with stress while I grew up. One year, when I was only 6 or 7 years old, I remember crawling into an upstairs crawlspace and I found a child’s glass teapot set. I asked my mom about it, and when she realized I had found my Christmas present that she had hidden, she was upset and angry. As I got older, I was often disappointed by the practical gifts I received. It was at Christmastime that I felt the sting of living in a more affluent neighborhood, but not being affluent. The day after Christmas we’d check out each other’s gifts with friends, and I was always amazed at the things they had gotten. Frivolous, shiny things. My daughters still use the metronome I got as a gift when I was a teenager and played piano. 

In the back of my mind, as I drive through town, seeing folks buying real Christmas trees, I think that maybe one day I too, will buy a real tree. Will have a Christmas that doesn’t feel like I’m just driving around buying things, but I don’t know, maybe that’s just me, succumbing to nostalgia, or being bored with shopping. Because my Christmas with my girls is a real Christmas, it’s just not a big family Christmas like I used to have with my mom, my dad, all my brothers and sisters and their spouses, and then our kids, too. Maybe even the tree lots seem frozen in the 1960’s, because of what they evoke, reminders to me of my past, which changed to become my present. 

My mom’s story about me helping her wasn’t just her being grateful, it was also an indictment. She was sad or angry, that my dad didn’t go out and get the tree with her and I knew it. I helped her in a way to take away her sadness, to alleviate her anger, to try to soothe that which seemed to never get soothed. Sometimes we had fun together, but more often, she’d be telling me her same stories, about her life just not turning out how she’d planned. About my dad not showing up, about my dad stopping at the bar on his way home from work. She never talked about her feelings, but maybe my mom was lonely, lonely at Christmastime, and maybe with eight kids, all she felt like she was doing was shopping and cooking and baking. 

life guard

what i once had an  

ink

ling

of

i know more fully

what i once imagined

i now live

once upon a time

i used to believe 

that i could 

protect you

i know now

there is no way

to be there

always

but only 

to love

as much

as i can

to 

day

we must

guard

ourselves

our love

our dreams

row

ing

out

to 

sea

to

dream

per

chance

per

diem

still

i would 

jump

in

row out

to save you

if i could 

Possible Futures

Premier among the consequences is the capacity to imagine possible futures, and to plan and choose among them. How wisely we use this uniquely human ability depends on the accuracy of our self-understanding. The question of greatest relevant interest is how and why we are the way we are and, from that, the meaning of our many competing visions of the future. Edward O. Wilson, The Meaning of Human Existence

It is that time of year, Christmas present shopping time, when it gets brought to my attention that I have over 600 items on my Amazon wish list. I thought it was bad a couple of years ago when there were 300 items. Most of these items are books. Books on art, books of poetry, graphic novels and memoirs. Books on healing, from healing with Tibetan singing bowls to books on neuroscience and trauma. Lately, I feel an overwhelm of information and a general unease of what to do with it all, how to make sense of it. When I found this quote, it was helpful for me to see, that yes, we can have “many competing visions of the future” and how do we then let our most wonderful future unfold? How do we create an accurate self-understanding? 

For such a long time for me, my self-understanding came from books. From Huck Finn when I was about 10 or 12, to Eldridge Cleaver’s Soul On Ice, at around 13, to my love of anything by F. Scott Fitzgerald in high school, to Wordsworth and Coleridge in college. There was only a small time frame, when my girls were little, when I didn’t read voraciously. I thought to myself, “hmm, maybe I just don’t like to read anymore.” I was just too busy and engaged in my outer world of parenting. Sometimes now, I worry about being too dependent on books, maybe I should get out more. Worry less about my self-understanding, my self-awareness. 

This self-awareness could be partly a trap; even though it is hugely stressed in the process of becoming a therapist. I partly believe that if we aren’t aware of our shadow selves, those parts of ourselves that we disown, that they will show up continually in our futures, in ways that might surprise us. But then again, maybe that’s ok, maybe it’s alright if we never truly know all of ourselves. Maybe we can let go a bit and trust that our best future will present itself at our doorstep, and we won’t ever fully know which bit of our past journey created the present we now know. 

Perhaps there is an art to creating and resting, or resting and engaging, reading and playing outdoors, being internal and being external. I know I will most likely not ever order or read the 600 books on my Amazon wish list. I just bought and read Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking, which I made myself finish, not because I really liked it, but because it seemed like the right thing to do, in light of her writing from a place of grief, I felt I needed to honor her grief. And in so doing, I realized that I have to create my own writer’s life, that Didion’s life of writing was her life, and I can glimpse into the lives of writers, of therapists, of poets, but I do indeed, need to create my own life, in which I create the balance, the outcome of mothering, of writing, of being a good therapist, and of just taking walks. 

Neatly Pressed

I stand here folding wrinkled cotton sheets

the softness soothing on my hands and arms

I think that I want to iron them

iron them smooth

and smell the smell of heat and steam and laundry detergent

I remember being very young

standing on a chair

and my mom teaching me to iron

dad’s starched white hankies 

then moving on to pillow cases

easy to iron

watching mom deftly ironing

dad’s dress shirts

collars first

then sleeves

then the body of the shirt

the clothes were piled high

the radio tuned to a classical station

my mom was not one to be into pop culture

she aspired to higher things

as I grew it became my job

to put the clothes away

hang them in the closets

we were all very neatly pressed

and put together

that mattered in a family

fed and clothed

prepared to make our way

and so today

I want to take out my ironing board

smooth away the wrinkles

sleep in ironed sheets

I never taught my daughters to iron

and it’s been a long time since I’ve done it myself 

back and forth

spray a little starch

spray a little water

hot to the touch

I left home in clothes

that would make me who I am 

Musings

I’ve had too much on my mind lately to feel like I could write something coherent, and sometimes, if I think about it, it scares me. My clarity of mind is something I value, and so I worry, as I get older, if this is just how it’s gonna be from now on; but then a bit of clarity does shines through, and says, nah, just cool down. It is hard to get older, to get wrinkles, to lose the ability to see in the dark, and to give up the youthfulness that our culture so highly values. I see young moms now, and feel nostalgic, it’s just weird. 

I’m also thinking about all the weird things I’ve believed over the years and wonder where I’d be if I hadn’t had so many limiting beliefs imbedded into my head; like there are certain things that men are supposed to provide for you, like a diamond ring, like a house, like safety. I’ve bought myself a diamond ring, and I ended up giving it to my sister, I’ve bought myself a house and now just feel like it’s kind of hard to keep one up on your own, and safety is something that still too often eludes me. 

I’m thinking that I’ve considered myself a single mom for too long, and fought against what I thought that that meant, instead of just sidestepping the whole issue. I’ve engaged in battles in my head against our culture, against the rules, against the church, and wonder what I’ve won or lost, and it’s probably mostly time and energy. I’ve wrongly believed that you can’t make art and make money, and that love and resources are dynamically opposed to each other. Silly me. 

So, I’m feeding my head new ways of looking at life, and believing that my future will feel safer and happier due to that. In the meantime, old thoughts still weigh me down, and memories of who I once was kinda haunt me. I was not a single mom, I was a mom with all the resources I needed, the evidence of which is always in front me. 

Monday Poem for You

I have words to tell

and a broken spell

and guts spilled out all over the floor

Come up close 

so as not to miss a word

and in a whisper I’ll tell you more

About kings and queens

and magic and dreams

and lies and schemes galore

About love and fear

and time and tears

about blood and bones and gore

About rivers I’ve crossed

and loves I’ve saved and lost

about letting go about keeping score

I had been called daughter and sister

and mother and twisted

and lover and virgin and whore

I have traveled to Paris

slept in London and Prague

Still my own bed fails to bore 

You want to know the truth you say

you want me to keep you safe

I say only you can know for sure 

You can know your way

you can see your future

plain as day the ill is the cure 

So open your hand

take this little pill

written on it is endure 

Feel the pound of heart beat
air fills your lungs with life so sweet
with wings take flight and soar

rain

what is the 
sound of rain
a beat
like that of the heart
what is the 
sound of the wind
a whisper
like a lover’s breath
what is the 
sound of the sea
like the womb before we descend
what is the sound 
a tree makes when it grows
silent like our souls

dialogue

I’ve always believed in the power of words, they shape how we see life and even how we feel. As I’m using words more verbally, in my therapy practice, I find it harder to write. I’m wondering if that is just temporary, trying to take in other factors, like maybe I’m just more tired as my practice builds. Or is there a correlation somehow, between having dialogue in our heads, with ourselves, and writing, and having actual spoken dialogue with other people? It makes me wonder about all the factors that go into what we consider being either introverted or extroverted? Is it about the words that we have stored inside us that either move us towards others, or push us inwards? 

I see this with couples, they want closeness, they want intimacy, but not only are the words missing, but also the permission to even talk about their deepest sense of self is often missing. I understand this, growing up in families and systems, that there are so many taboos around what parts of ourselves it’s ok to share, and what parts are not ok to share, that at times we just give in, and are quiet, not sharing anything at all. For me, when I was younger,  I would often just retreat, watch and listen, knowing that there were some rules of interaction that I just never quite ‘got.’ I would have considered myself shy, or more introverted, when in actuality, it was that the words that people were using to connect were not part of my vocabulary. And in our culture, there can be things not accepted in one family, that are perfectly fine in another to talk about,  to be open around. 

I’m still learning and practicing the art of communication, and finding, quite humbly, that even sometimes quite simple things elude me. Being exact about how much time I have to spend with someone. Giving feedback about my preferences. Being present when one or more persons is in the room. Telling someone I need time to myself. Asking someone to lower or soften their voice. Being curious about something. Asking for clarification when I’m uncertain, but don’t want to seem too needy. Even in writing this, it seems like my point is a bit unclear, like the ideas I’m trying to form are not fully gestated. But I think it’s ok, ok to be a little unclear, and still try to make sense, to put to words, to communicate. It’s how we grow. 

The Pursuit of Happiness or Can I Be Happy?

Can I Be Happy?

What a strange question, non? But it’s what I’ve been wondering lately. I signed up for an online free class that started just this week, and it’s all about, yes, you guessed it; happiness. And my initial reaction to classmates posting videos about what makes them happy, well, made me embarrassed. Yes, sadly, this was my reaction, but fortunately I noticed my reaction and was like, “Hey Theresa, what’s up with that?” And I’ve been wondering, hell, what is up with that? And what is up with that is that I really don’t think I’ve allowed myself, or even known, how to be happy. At least not for a while now. I do know that in the past I’ve been happy, but it seems like a faint memory. 

The backstory on this was that for over ten years of my youngest daughter’s life; she was clinically, horribly, undeniably depressed. Sounds bad, and it was, and in those years she made more than a few attempts at her life, and so I know my way around the block in crazy. Most parent just hope to feed and clothes their child, and you know, do the normal things to keep them alive, hope they don’t mess them up too horribly. I had to be ready to respond to crisis day in and day out. I’ve had to wonder if any change in mood might signal something scary. I’ve had to take her to specialist after specialist, therapist after therapist, only to be told, “hmm, not sure what is going on.” I’ve written only briefly about it, because it was her private hell, but I was there, too. 

And I think that to have allowed myself any kind of happiness during that time would have been crazy, and weirdly, unseemly. I remember missing feeling happy, and I too, like Megan, felt cheated. Cheated out of being able to enjoy my child’s childhood. Cheated of being able to focus on my other daughters as much as I wanted to. Cheated of being able to just be normal. Fortunately, finally, that girl got diagnosed with Hashimoto’s hypothyroid disease and with the right medication, her depression lifted, and now, years later, the subtle depression and hopelessness that followed, in her coming to terms with having lost 10 fricken years of her life has also lifted. She is now, mostly happy, mostly recovered, however that looks for someone who was clinically depressed from ages 7 to 17. 

I want to be happy now too. I want to just know that those dark years are gone, and in the last 8 of them, I’ve finished two master’s degrees, and started a private practice as a holistic psychotherapist. Working so hard might have contributed slightly to my lack of luster in the happiness department, but I’m ready to learn, ready to go, ready to let go of being on a mission to find help for my daughter. She is really quite good at helping herself now. And I am ready to feel happy. Like Megan, jumping on the bed at age 4 or 5 or so, taping herself, saying “Happy, happy, happy, I’m so happy.” I remember that little voice poignantly, I thought about it during my search for help for her, wondering what in the hell happened? She was so happy as a baby and toddler, she should have been able to have kept all that happiness, instead of having to lose and find it. She had a safe home and a mom and two sisters who loved her like crazy. Happiness is our birthright, it should be that simple. So, I’ll start by telling you what makes me happy, really happy--thyroid medication. 

Shifting Paradigms: Unsteady Ground

I will admit that at times I am jealous, tired, sad, and resentful and when I get these feelings, or emotions, they tend to cluster together and feel overwhelming. I know that they will pass, but I also wonder what they are trying to tell me? How do I sit with these feelings and not just want to stay in bed and cry? Who in the wide world of sports wants to know that I’m suffering in this way? My children definitely don’t, and my friends, well, they usually come to me with their issues. I know though, that I’m not alone. In the New York Times Bestseller, “Are You My Mother?”, writer Alison Bechdel shares poignantly about her own envy saying, “I was suffering at this time from nearly unbearable spasms of professional envy.” I feel this way when I read about women like Arianna Huffington publishing yet another book. And I tell myself, “This is the old paradigm, this is the paradigm that says there is not enough, or that if Huffington has so much, there is none left over for you, if Huffington is espousing mindfulness, why should you bother.” And in this paradigm, “How” I ask myself “can I compete?”

In my new paradigm, I know that there is no need to compete. This doesn’t sit with the research I’ve found that says women drop out of competition even when they are worthy of the task. Do we compete then, or not compete? Or do we trust the universe? Is it masculine power to compete? Femine power to trust? For me, in my understanding of trusting the universe, I don’t have to compete, I just have to show up and the universe will usher me into the next place in my life. I am trying to make sense of some of this with my own therapist, who has been really helpful, but I’m not sure he understands the different paradigm I’m trying to shift into. We can call this “laws of attraction”, “abundance”, or whatever this is, where all of our emotions are good, and we learn from them, and we trust in abundance rather than lack. I feel very alone lately in my trying to make sense of this.   

In Bechdel’s story, she is seeing her own therapist, who replies, “All this makes me think that in your own family there wasn’t enough room under one roof for several geniuses.” And that is sort of how I feel, only, it’s not just in my own family, it’s in the world, and it’s also the fear that perhaps I’m not really a genius at all, just a want-to-be writer, just a little girl who didn’t have a voice growing up, who wants to be heard. I don’t actually even want to be a genius--whatever that is, as much as I want to have a place of belonging, which is a more accurate description of what was missing for me growing up. There was no-one in my family even aware of what it might mean to be intellectual, to be curious, to have a desire for more of life; and so, in my bookishness I felt odd and alone. My middle daughter Erin, put it sweetly once, when she said I was like Roald Dahl’s Matilda. 

I worry, too, about what I write about. As my daughter, Kathleen is writing her own memoir, she is writing about her disconnect from me, and I wonder, is my focusing on my own lack in my growing up just continuing to show up? I had hoped to have provided a place for my daughters where I felt no place as a child, and maybe in my own striving to not be my mother, I still was my mother. This makes me feel so hopeless. Yet, I also know, that whatever it takes for my daughter to make sense of her own life, I want for her. 

Maybe I’m the one who wonders if there is room for lots of people to have their voice, to have their emotions, to have their genius. Often, I struggle with playing down who I am, what I’ve done, what I know, maybe believing that I need to let others share and shine. I wonder, as my daughter writes, if I still need to write, want to write? Can I just pass on the torch or is my voice still valid? She tells me that when wisdom comes it is not us, that we need to get out of the way; but I want to own my wisdom, I felt so much of wisdom was forbidden to me as a child, forbidden to me as a woman, that the wisdom I feel I have is hardwon, and to say it comes from some universal good feels like all I've done will be taken away from me, yet a part of me believes she is right, too. As I want to normalize and understand all of our humaness, all of our emotions, I struggle with what emotions are ok to share only with loved ones, and which to share with the world. I was brought up that way. There were always so many secrets, so many things to keep private, so many things that were hidden away that the burden of it all became too heavy. Finally, the door that these things were behind became unhinged, and it all fell out onto the floor, into the light of day. Here I am, so imperfect, yet so willing to keep trying, to keep loving, to keep showing up, without trying. As my paradigm shifts, do I recognize my own voice? 

As my paradigm shifts can I allow Huffington to be who she is without comparing myself, can I read the unparalleled genius of Bechdel and still feel like I too want to contribute? Can I let my daughter's voice tell of all of our struggles to love each other and still feel loved? I want to believe it can be so. 

Very Small Vacation Part II: Simple Twist of Fate

So on my small weekend vacation up North, I never did get my ass on a horse. Instead, I twisted and sprained my ankle. Nearly right away, nearly as soon as I got there. A simple twist of fate, perhaps. I simply was stepping out the door to go get some groceries for the weekend, and didn’t notice the small step right outside the front door of my sister-in-law’s home. So other things happened. Later that day, I did take a boat ride, walked down the hill to the lake, very gingerly, and pressed forward in spite of the pain, but the next day, when riding was scheduled, my ankle was much too swollen, so my nephew drove me around the Alexandria lakes area while the rest of the family went riding. 

Strangely, my sister-in-law was worried I would sue her over the fall. This was really weird to me, since I’d never even have thought of it if she hadn’t brought it up, at least a couple of times. But this reminded me that my whole family has issues around trust. This is sad. This was the part of the vacation that worried me, wondering if I could feel safe enough to relax around my extended family. Wondering how to listen to the stories and not feel overwhelmed. Like hearing from my niece that she held it against my mom that my brother never really liked Christmas; all because of the infamous Christmas when my mom pulled down the Christmas tree in a rage at us kids. She wondered if I’d remembered that Christmas. Of course I did, how would you forget that? I don't even remember how old I was, maybe 6 or 8, and my mom simply had a meltdown, and yelled that if it was so much fun to wreck things, she'd do it too. She pulled over the Christmas tree and started throwing things. It was terrifying and all of us we were trying so hard to tell her we were sorry. My mom wanted so badly to have a picture perfect life, which, of course was impossible with 8 kids. I grew up with this horrible thought that we kids wrecked my mom's life. It was odd to have this very private memory shared. 

It was also a little odd (and touching) that my sister-in-law keeps the radio on in the garage constantly, to remind her of my brother. It is on an ‘oldies’ station, that he always listened to. I came to understand that we all grieve and remember in our own ways. I also came away with understanding how having fun can be interwoven with other thoughts and emotions. In my family, my mother was very judging of people having fun, so having fun for me became an exercise in telling myself it was ok to have fun. I had to untangle emotions and values and beliefs that were prohibiting me from relaxing, especially with my family. It’s really hard to have fun when you don’t feel safe. 

Yet, all in all, it was a good getaway. My oldest and youngest daughters were able to spend time together in a way they never had; my grandson Max, swam across the entire lake with one of his cousins, and had an awesome time fishing, swimming and boating. I came away with a great bottle of wine from Carlos Creek Winery. My sister-in-law and her family could share their memories of my brother with someone who knew him well, who shared his family stories, no matter how bitter. I was able to somehow put to rest the regret I’d felt, when he was dying, that I hadn’t trusted my brother enough to take him up on his offer, when he was alive, to bring my kids and grandkids up to go boating and fishing.

Maybe next year I'll get on a horse. 

Broken Agreements

How do we decide which agreement to keep and which to break? I realize now, that for a really long time, I measured myself, and therefore others, I’m sure, too, on how they kept their agreements with credit card companies. Did you make your monthly payment? Check. On time? Check. This makes you a good citizen, successful, right? Not that I haven’t know plenty of people who have had problems paying bills on time, off and on, I’ve been one of them. But since my divorce (an agreement to stay married which I didn’t keep); I’ve been patting myself on the back around fiscal issues, even though I’ve struggled with them. I’ve still not recovered from the loss of my equity in my home, another agreement, a social one, that homes don’t lose value, that was broken not by me, but by others. 

So, who gets to decide what to abide by, what not to abide by, and why? As I walked around Lake Harriet today, I saw two guys walking 18 dogs between them. It was pretty amazing actually, how they’d get all the dogs to stop and wait while just one of the dogs had to, you know, drop something. A jogger smiled and said to another, “I’d like that job.” And it made me think, that wow, I like my job, and it also made me wonder, what if, when children are young, we told them, “You get to do whatever you want to do with your life and the universe will support you. It’s that easy.” Because really, and truly, it is that easy. But we make it hard. We tell kids all the time that life is hard, and school sucks, but we had to do it, and work is just a part of life, and paying bills, and making agreements and pretty soon this kid is all caught up in anxiety, just like we are. 

I am deciding now which agreements to make and break and keep, and even wondering why we have to make agreements and commitments and why can’t we just do what we want, all the time? Seriously, all the time. Because you know what, that is what we do. We make agreements with ourself to stay bitter, we make agreements to stay small, we make agreements not to ‘rock the boat.’ We make bitter, crazy, agreements all the time, and then we hold ourselves to them. Like the agreement to believe that if everybody just did what they wanted the world would be a mess. I'd like to see. Maybe agreements should just last through the day, like, for today, I will still be angry as a way to protect myself. For today I will go to this job I hate, but maybe tomorrow I’ll craft a plan for something different. For today I will love all the people I encounter, and do this day by day, until I realize I do have enough love, every day. Making agreements I agree with, that’s what I do, now. 

Very Small Vacation

It’s been a while since I’ve felt like writing. I’ve been out of classes now for months, and I’ve been putting my energy into building my practice and actually taking care of myself. I do still have the ‘aha’ thoughts, that make me think I should write about that thought, but then I’m lost in the upswing of everything else that is my life. Like still being the mom to three beautiful women, and the Bubbe to three beautiful grandchildren, and feeling fortunate that I live near them all. 

But right now, it is 6:28 am, and it is a beautifully still and quiet morning considering that I live right in the city, considering that my neighborhood continues to become more and more noisy and congested all the time. I am almost pulled into a trance, where I want to just listen to the birds, listen to the random car driving on the usually busy avenue, listen for the nearly autumn breeze that is stirring, just around the corner. 

Today, I am driving up North with Kathleen and Max, and Megan. We are going to visit my sister-in-law for an overnight, and we’re going horseback riding today. I am both psyched and a little scared, and I’m trying to ignore the scared part. At first, I was like, “Hey sure, you all can ride horse, and I’ll stay by the lake and read a book.” And then I was like, (to myself), “Really, you are going to be that person?” That person, meaning, the person who doesn’t get out there and join in, and do the fun things that they secretly pine about not being able to do. (Or outwardly whine about not being able to do.) 

So, no, I’m not going to be that person. I’m going to go down into my basement soon, and look for some boots, suitable for riding, and I’m going to sit my ass on a horse, and I’m going to have fun, even if I am a little scared, nervous, excited, because I can feel all those things and not let them stop me from having fun with my family. But first, I’m going to go down the block to the new donut shop and buy donuts for breakfast, because we are on a very small, starting right now, vacation. 

The Myth or Ode to Love

The forced intimacy of sharing my womb

when I was used to having some alone time

for nine whole months we shared my body

my blood

my food and water

and we grew

I did not know what sort of chemical bath

my brain was bathed in

the endorphins that surged through

my body when we were together

when my breasts became your sustenance

your breath became my joy

And so the usual path that I’d taken in the past

to be avoidant to be alone to make my friendships

in literature not life took a turn

perhaps even a fork

and the path became peopled 

with emotions I’d dared not greet 

Your existence became a constant adventure

a challenge a seeking

a flashlight on my shadow self

your emotions raw and rash

and bold and daring

more colorful and bright than I could have imagined

I had bits of memory come floating back

of hiding in the bathroom

of crying on the stairwell

of feeling so alone I thought my being 

would shatter

of being the child you had become 

And books again became my path

only this time not to be alone

but to find the answers

on how to be together

how to turn avoidant anxious

to secure not for me but for you

You had become all I cared about

learning to create the alchemy of love

that had been missing

the space for emotion

that I did not know existed

the language of acceptance that I’d never heard 

The time was running out

the years flew by

you grew up

so quickly

I was Sisyphus

pushing the rock uphill for the sin of deceit

I lived long enough 

to understand

to let you go

to learn to love

on your own 

never forgetting the lessons you brought

There is enough

the gravest deceit is against ourselves

against those we love

against the very nature

of who we are more than flesh and blood 

the rock dissolved against the mountain  

Truth in Advertising

There’s been some noise out there about Facebook manipulating their user’s emotions. Imagine that, people manipulating other people’s emotions. Is that fair, right, ethical? Maybe we should ask ourselves, is this anything new? Or even, how can we protect ourselves from this manipulation in the first place? 

We in the US, (and other countries as well, perhaps) have been influenced (manipulated) for years into believing and acting upon certain beliefs and values. An enlightened view can come from looking critically at the work of Edward Bernays. Edward Bernays was a nephew of Sigmund Freud, influenced by Freud, and someone who had top-level connections in the US during the early part of the 20th century. You can find his book Propaganda (1928), in most bookstores. This is a quote from his book, “The conscious and intelligent manipulation of the organized habits and opinions of the masses is an important element in democratic society. Those who manipulate this unseen mechanism of society constitute an invisible government which is the true ruling power of our country.” According to Wikipedia; Bernays's vision was of a utopian society in which individuals' dangerous libidinal energies, the psychic and emotional energy associated with instinctual biological drives that Bernays viewed as inherently dangerous given his observation of societies like the Germans under Hitler, could be harnessed and channeled by a corporate elite for economic benefit.

So, since at least 1928, there has been a construct around the idea of manipulating people to conform to behavior by “harnessing” psychic and emotional energy. This is based on outdated views of human in general, and emotional energy in particular. In some ways, we have come very far in understanding human emotions, and in some cases, researchers are now able to confirm some emotions in animals as well. We know now that emotional energy is not dangerous, but essential, and advantageous to us as a species. But it seems to take a long time for information accepted and proven by researchers to reach the general public, most likely because their forte is understanding human behavior, not manipulating it. 

Let me help you out here a bit. Your emotions are not dangerous, and having emotions does not make you overly emotional, feminine, or neurotic. Having emotions makes you human. Most of us however, have very little understanding of our own, or other people’s emotions, making us feel at best nervous, and at worst isolated, when it comes to connecting with ourselves and each other around our feeling states. Many of us have been conditioned to have shame around one, some, or all of our emotions, and this shame feels so terrible, that we often never get through it to let ourselves even feel what we need to feel. 

I say need to feel, because that is what our emotions are for, feeling them, accepting them, understanding the information they bring to bear on the situation for us. If, for example, your understanding of anger is that it is bad, this might make you feel like you are a bad person every time you feel anger. This is not true, anger in and of itself is not bad, and we all feel anger. Yes, you, even the person who says, “I never get angry.” Because you do, you just aren’t letting yourself feel it or express it. Maybe you grew up in a home where anger was expressed in hurtful and violent ways, and you are fortunate enough to have learned how not to express this emotion this way, this doesn’t mean, however, that you aren’t ever feeling anger. Anger does not equal violence or even road rage, these are behaviors, not emotions. 

Being disconnected from emotions isn’t just about managing what some might still refer to as “negative” emotions. No emotions are negative, some might just feel better than others. Unfortunately, we can learn to disconnect from our emotions, even our love, even our joy. If trying to become rational and logical, in the mistaken belief that our emotions are a hindrance, we can not just shut down anger and fear but in this belief, we also shut down love, joy, and the connection to others that emotions create. 

And so, what this is leading to is the belief that I hold, that as we connect and learn from our emotions, we limit the possibility that anyone or anything else can manipulate us at all. We become solid, we become impenetrable, and we realize that in feeling our feelings and integrating them into our selves, we no longer have the need for barriers that protect us from being manipulated (having our “buttons” pushed). And in this connection, we connect to others in our love and joy and freedom, unhindered by the messages of propaganda. 

Many, many, enlightened people live in the space of knowing the systems that are in place that try to manipulate and control, but don’t know how to create a sense of self that rises about this propaganda. It’s complicated, but it’s not impossible. I have truly found that in compassion for ourselves and others, we create a different energy that blocks out the bad karma that can come from feeling trapped in systems that perpetuate outdated beliefs about who we are as humans. 

I struggled in writing this, not wanting to get stuck myself in that bad juju of erroneous beliefs. It’s easier for me most times to meditate, or listen to music, or surround myself with the energy of magic, of body and mind and heart integrated, or find or create art, which arises from the connection of reason and romance. Instead of being on Facebook, I can enjoy created masterpieces from enlightened poets and artists and craftsman who found their whole self and joy, and in this joy created that which continues to bring forth joy. This is why art is so important, it is proof of our humanity which is integrated, holy, and provides evidence that this is possible, it pronounces who we are, and not who we are not. 

I don't want to fight the propaganda, or Facebook, or get angry at something so big that it makes me feel helpless. This doesn't serve me, but what I can do,  is use this anger at propaganda to fuel my words, to tell a different story, to use my voice to suggest to others that they too, might find their wholeness, their holiness, might find their joy. Find your own truth, and you will need no advertising. 

Loving Your Little Weirdo Self

When was the last time you acknowledged to yourself that you still are carrying around the feelings of that little weirdo self you once were? Living with kids helps you remember and connect, if you’re self aware enough, and lucky enough to be able to talk about this weird stuff with someone, but all serious, scientific talk aside, you know, those articles about being vulnerable, this is what it boils down to. At one point, we were all vulnerable, totally dependent on our caregivers to nurture us enough to keep us alive, and we are all, to one extent or another, living the messages that we received and internalized about how to keep the love comin. 

Once we got this down, and made it to the real world, like maybe first grade, (whew, remember kindergarten graduation?) we were less vulnerable enough to wander the world alone. And for me, and for all three of my daughters, and I’m guessing for you too, these worlds of lawless hallways were filled with kids who asked questions like, “Where did you get those shoes (fill in with glasses, hair, etc.)?” The questions that made you feel like something was maybe wrong with you, but you weren’t sure what. What, what, you’d wonder were wrong with your green tennis shoes? 

And so, without ever really knowing what was wrong, or even what could make this right, we meander our way through life. And eventually we might even accomplish enough things to make us feel like most of the things about us are alright, maybe even ‘normal.’ But there can still linger than weird feeling, that makes us feel unsure, unsteady, that slight worry, that maybe we are a weirdo. I’ve met up with my little weirdo self this morning. The tiny little girl with crazy blond curls that everyone thought was still 3 or 4 when she was actually 5 or 6. Try trying to convince an adult that you only really just look like a toddler, geez. That older kid who had a dad who drank too much, who had a mother who chased her siblings in the yard with a wooden spoon, and who yearned for a quiet life of books and music. Guess what I told her, “Hey, you know, I love you, and so do a lot of other people, and you’re turning out just fine, sure, a little weird sometimes, but we all are, and that’s really ok.” It is ok.  

Myths About Motivation and Money

So, I read this short article yesterday (June 23, 2014), written by Allison Linn, CNBC.com, called; Wealthy Parents' Big Fear? Raising Spoiled Poor Little Rich Kids. Basically, what this article stated was that the rich lose sleep over worrying that their wealth will ruin their children. The survey that this article was based on asked wealthy families around the world; what their greatest fears regarding their wealth and their  future were. Worry about health was actually first, and secondly was that, “My children will lack the drive and ambition to get ahead.” 

Read that again, “My children will lack the drive and ambition to get ahead.” This is from parents who have $10 million or more. What this statement implies, is that money is what motivates people to get ahead. And maybe more importantly, it suggests that the lack of money is a motivator. What I’d really like to ask of these wealthy mamas and papas, is what they think getting ahead is when you come from a family with $10 mil. 

Where do we get our crazy ideas about money? If you are poor and hungry you are probably less likely to be motivated, simply because you are well, hungry and tired. Motivation is not something magic that some of us have and others don’t. Motivation is a normal human function that comes from a healthy functioning mind and body. This is not to say that those in extreme circumstances don’t often rely on whatever they can to be and stay motivated. This motivation can also come from altruism, like wanting good things for your children. 

Research finds over and over that really, after basic needs are met, people are not motivated by money. This however, flies in the face of most of our systems, where we worship not just money, but the concept of the lack of money, scarcity. What else would make getting ahead a priority for people who are not only already ahead, but there? As in, they have arrived. 

As my girls were growing up, I was worried for them, and not about them getting ahead, but about them getting a chance. I wanted them to have a chance to pursue their dreams, to travel, to be educated, to find an arena in which to connect and collaborate and be accepted and celebrated. To find and create relationship and community. This was not about getting ahead. I was worried because I’d internalized silly things that people wrote about children of single parented homes. I also worried because I’d bought into all the crazy myths about money and about enough. 

Well, now I know there is enough, and I don’t have to have $10 mil, or even $1 mil to know this. My daughters are finding their way in life, educating themselves, and traveling and creating relationship and family and community. I’m doing the same. I don’t think we can spoil our kids, and I don’t think we have to live with unexamined and untrue ideas about money, success, motivation and family. Our children aren't spoiled by money, but by our weird internalized beliefs. And even with that, there is always hope that their internal motivation will spur them to examine their beliefs, and with more resources, they should be able to access good people to help them on their journey. With $10 mil parents, come on, don’t worry, be happy. The children are all right.